Part 1 is here.
Even though I was a stage III patient at the time, early on my doctors had discussed the use of a drug that normally is only administered to stage IV patients, Avastin (bevacizumab). Avastin works by cutting off a tumor's blood supply. It can have serious side-effects, and I was reluctant to agree to its use.
My oncologist decided to wait until the next treatment before adding it to my chemo-mix. She wanted to be certain that
healing from surgery was complete before introducing a chemical that would hinder it.
The second half of the update to family and friends about treatment number two follows:
After only one prior treatment, that day's preliminary blood work revealed a dropping white blood cell count. "It's not unexpected," the doc said, "but another thing to monitor."
We'll be talking about Neupogen(tm) injections, which stimulate the bone marrow to produce white blood cells, at a future visit. Much talk about the importance of hand-washing, and of avoiding germs also happened.
Just before it was time to go, I was hooked up to the portable infusion pump. I couldn't wait to leave that place, black polyester storage pack, pump and all. Out! Get me outta here. Patrick brought me home.
When our four-year-old saw me at home later, he jumped up and down clapping, and exclaimed, "Oh! You got your pump back! Is it chattering?" He leaned in with his ear on the storage case to discover that yes, it was! I thanked God for my sweet little boy, and his cheery disposition. His innocent enthusiasm for my dreaded pump made me smile.
Tuesday went pretty well. I learned that scheduling the anti-nausea meds is way better than taking them "as-needed". "As-needed" is a term that I can't quite figure out. Also, with chemo it seems that if you get to the point of realizing that you do need the anti-nausea meds, you've already missed the window in which they would've been most effective. Lesson learned. Bring on the Zofran!
Some not-so-great news is that, as the oncologist predicted, the tingling in my hands got worse, to the point of painful when doing the most minor of tasks. It happened more frequently, and lasted longer than it had last time. It diminished over the course of the week though, and I'm hopeful that it will continue to keep reversing itself after treatments.
Too much near-fainting for anyone's comfort happened most of the week. (What is so difficult about moving from sitting to standing?!) I'm still hyper-sensitive to light, too. We now have a lovely sheet draped over a tension rod in front of the kitchen window to block out the morning light.
On Wednesday, same as two weeks ago, I brought the boys with me for the pump-removal visit. The two little ones discovered the mail slot in the door to the office, so they had fun putting their toys in the "hiding spot" built into the door. It kept them entertained for...minutes. No other patients were around that day, and so the oncologist had time to meet us in the reception area. She greeted the boys as "brave soldiers", a term which broke my heart a little.
I followed the doc and a nurse to the back, leaving the boys in the waiting room.
I was learning the routine that would happen at every "pump-off" visit: step on the scale, then sit in the nearby chair to get my blood pressure taken. Next, my temperature would be taken, and then the nurse would draw a blood sample for immediate analysis. She found that my iron was low that day as well as my white blood cell count. She injected me with a dose of vitamin B12. Iron would've been infused right then, but since it takes an hour, we decided that it could wait until the next time I'm there without the kids.
From the clinic, the boys and I headed to the Wendy's drive-thru because I had promised them a Frosty for good behavior. I stole one freezy, chilly, brain-exploding bite from somebody's cup--O.K., and then another PAINFUL one that taught me to just knock it off already--and then headed straight for home where I've mostly been resting all week.
How can anybody be this tired? It's crazy. I know this whole thing could be so much worse. I'm grateful that it's not.
Next post: Iron Infusion Mayhem
Friday, May 1, 2015
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Treatment 2: Part 1
Sent: October 15, 2013 8:19 AM
Subject: Quick Update: Tx#2
Greetings!
Treatment #2 was yesterday, and rather gory but you'll have to wait for details, b/c my hands are shaky today. Hopefully that will lessen over the course of the week.
Taking anti-nausea meds BEFORE I need them this time. It goes against my nature, so it's hard to remember to do it. I have a schedule written down, so that should help.
Planning a lot of rest today. Hope it works out that way ;)
Will update more later in the week.
Thank you for your prayers!
Celine
Five days after sending that message, I tried to show my friends and family what it was like for me in the clinic during the next chemo treatment:
Greetings!The treatment room was full on Monday. It is a large room, maybe 20-ft x 16-ft, with square stone tile on the floor, and windows on the two exterior walls. It is home to eight large, overstuffed leather recliners arranged around three sides of the room. Small folding tables placed between each chair provide a convenient place for nurses to set bandages, needles, meds, and all manner of equipment. Beside each chair is an I.V. pole with an attached infusion pump. The room opens onto a deep lab area where patients can watch as the pharmacy techs and the nurses go about their work.
When a patient brings a companion to the clinic, as I always did, the companion may use the recliner next to the patient, when one is available. Chemo infusions last several hours, so having a comfortable chair makes the long sessions more bearable. On Monday, there was only one empty recliner. I was patient number eight that morning. Most of the companions present, Patrick included, were relegated to low, backless stools placed behind the row of recliners and tables, next to the wall. Another companion, a young lady in her late-teens or early twenties, shared her mother's recliner, snuggling tight against her mother's side.
I sat in the one remaining available seat, which was halfway around the room, directly opposite the "cocktail bar" where the pharmacy tech stood bedecked in safety goggles, elbow-length purple nitrile gloves, and a disposable blue tie-back protective gown, eagerly awaiting the first chemo order to mix. He'd be busy that day, and he looked like he was up to the task.
One of the many things I never knew until I became a cancer patient myself is that "chemotherapy" is a generic term. The mix I would receive for my treatment would almost certainly be different than the one the patient in the next chair over received. Some meds were dosed based on the patient's surface area (I do wonder how they came up with that idea). Some were based on weight.
Not only were dosages different, but the meds used were different, depending on the type of cancer being treated. Not every chemo patient loses their hair, for example, because not every chemo patient receives, say irinotecan in their chemo "cocktail". To complicate matters even further, sometimes dosages are adjusted from treatment-to-treatment due to unacceptable levels of toxicity.
I didn't know it at the time this blast-o-gram was written, but my own "recipe" would be adjusted starting at treatment number three, due to my liver no longer tolerating (as evidenced by lab results) the amount of oxaliplatin in my mix.
Several nurses went about their routines, each assigned to multiple patients. They drew blood, hung meds, and offered blankets. The oncologist wove in and out among the staff, patients, and companions, ever-vigilant, checking charts and meds, answering questions, giving instructions, and ensuring that the day got off to a smooth start.
My nurse wheeled a many-drawered supply cart toward me noisily over the bumpy tile-and-grout floor. "You ready?" she smiled. I assured her that I was. But. I lied. I wasn't ready for what was ahead. She grabbed gloves, and selected a harpoon from one of the drawers to stab me with. She peeled away the sterile wrapping, then spied the spot where the medi-port waited.
The nurse carefully inspected the site, swabbed an antiseptic-soaked wipe across it, then jabbed the gigantic needle through my skin and into the port. Next, she used a saline-filled syringe to flush the port, and then tried to draw blood. No blood. "Hmmmm..." she said, "let's try that again." "Again?!" I thought. Thwack! out popped the harpoon from my chest, and she reached for another one from the supply cart. "Sorry," she whispered. She sprayed the spot with a smelly, non-effective numbing agent. She asked me to turn my head as far to the right as I could, and then to "take a deep breath". Doing this made me an unknowing participant in my own torture! As my lungs expanded, the harpoon dug in, pushing painfully against the back of the port. I screamed silently and clutched my thigh. Ow! Ow! Ow! Again the syringe. Again it pulled nothing.
"Oh no...," I thought. I couldn't look. Of course I couldn't look! My eyes squeezed shut.
Thwack! The nurse pulled out the second harpoon. Now my mind raced, "She's not going to do it AGAIN?!?" Yes. She was going to do it again. "Third time's the charm?" I croaked, hoping that if this attempt didn't work, I would pass out. I imagined myself sliding from the recliner to the cold, hard floor, unconscious. "She could try as many harpoons as she wanted then," I thought.
She unwrapped the third harpoon, and I was suddenly keenly aware of the other people in the room. They were all staring at us even though I swear the screaming was only in my head. Even the pharmacy guy was standing still, watching. Was three attempts unusual? I wouldn't know. "So, so sorry," the nurse whispered as she sprayed the aerosol again, then confidently came at me with the third harpoon. This time, it felt like she was trying to attach me to the chair with a nail gun. I clenched my fists, and my jaws, and guess what? Still no blood in the syringe.
Me: What am I, a zombie? Why is there no blood?
Nurse: Sometimes they're just stubborn. I'm sure you're not a zombie.
Me: Three tries is too many tries. Got any vodka? (Ha! No, I didn't mention booze...I wasn't nearly coherent enough to ask for anything useful at that point.)
The nurse was able to push fluids through the port (not that I was looking!), and so hung the meds as usual. She then drew blood the conventional way, using a needle in my arm. ("See? Not a zombie," she smiled, holding up the vial of blood.) She walked across the room and into the lab-slash-cocktail bar, while I attempted some deep "cleansing" breaths and tried hard to forget what just transpired.
That experience gave me nightmares, as in: more than one actual nightmare.
Note: If you are facing an infusion for the first time, don't worry! It almost never happens this way.
Part 2 to follow.
Subject: Quick Update: Tx#2
Greetings!
Treatment #2 was yesterday, and rather gory but you'll have to wait for details, b/c my hands are shaky today. Hopefully that will lessen over the course of the week.
Taking anti-nausea meds BEFORE I need them this time. It goes against my nature, so it's hard to remember to do it. I have a schedule written down, so that should help.
Planning a lot of rest today. Hope it works out that way ;)
Will update more later in the week.
Thank you for your prayers!
Celine
Five days after sending that message, I tried to show my friends and family what it was like for me in the clinic during the next chemo treatment:
Greetings!The treatment room was full on Monday. It is a large room, maybe 20-ft x 16-ft, with square stone tile on the floor, and windows on the two exterior walls. It is home to eight large, overstuffed leather recliners arranged around three sides of the room. Small folding tables placed between each chair provide a convenient place for nurses to set bandages, needles, meds, and all manner of equipment. Beside each chair is an I.V. pole with an attached infusion pump. The room opens onto a deep lab area where patients can watch as the pharmacy techs and the nurses go about their work.
When a patient brings a companion to the clinic, as I always did, the companion may use the recliner next to the patient, when one is available. Chemo infusions last several hours, so having a comfortable chair makes the long sessions more bearable. On Monday, there was only one empty recliner. I was patient number eight that morning. Most of the companions present, Patrick included, were relegated to low, backless stools placed behind the row of recliners and tables, next to the wall. Another companion, a young lady in her late-teens or early twenties, shared her mother's recliner, snuggling tight against her mother's side.
I sat in the one remaining available seat, which was halfway around the room, directly opposite the "cocktail bar" where the pharmacy tech stood bedecked in safety goggles, elbow-length purple nitrile gloves, and a disposable blue tie-back protective gown, eagerly awaiting the first chemo order to mix. He'd be busy that day, and he looked like he was up to the task.
One of the many things I never knew until I became a cancer patient myself is that "chemotherapy" is a generic term. The mix I would receive for my treatment would almost certainly be different than the one the patient in the next chair over received. Some meds were dosed based on the patient's surface area (I do wonder how they came up with that idea). Some were based on weight.
Not only were dosages different, but the meds used were different, depending on the type of cancer being treated. Not every chemo patient loses their hair, for example, because not every chemo patient receives, say irinotecan in their chemo "cocktail". To complicate matters even further, sometimes dosages are adjusted from treatment-to-treatment due to unacceptable levels of toxicity.
I didn't know it at the time this blast-o-gram was written, but my own "recipe" would be adjusted starting at treatment number three, due to my liver no longer tolerating (as evidenced by lab results) the amount of oxaliplatin in my mix.
Several nurses went about their routines, each assigned to multiple patients. They drew blood, hung meds, and offered blankets. The oncologist wove in and out among the staff, patients, and companions, ever-vigilant, checking charts and meds, answering questions, giving instructions, and ensuring that the day got off to a smooth start.
My nurse wheeled a many-drawered supply cart toward me noisily over the bumpy tile-and-grout floor. "You ready?" she smiled. I assured her that I was. But. I lied. I wasn't ready for what was ahead. She grabbed gloves, and selected a harpoon from one of the drawers to stab me with. She peeled away the sterile wrapping, then spied the spot where the medi-port waited.
The nurse carefully inspected the site, swabbed an antiseptic-soaked wipe across it, then jabbed the gigantic needle through my skin and into the port. Next, she used a saline-filled syringe to flush the port, and then tried to draw blood. No blood. "Hmmmm..." she said, "let's try that again." "Again?!" I thought. Thwack! out popped the harpoon from my chest, and she reached for another one from the supply cart. "Sorry," she whispered. She sprayed the spot with a smelly, non-effective numbing agent. She asked me to turn my head as far to the right as I could, and then to "take a deep breath". Doing this made me an unknowing participant in my own torture! As my lungs expanded, the harpoon dug in, pushing painfully against the back of the port. I screamed silently and clutched my thigh. Ow! Ow! Ow! Again the syringe. Again it pulled nothing.
"Oh no...," I thought. I couldn't look. Of course I couldn't look! My eyes squeezed shut.
Thwack! The nurse pulled out the second harpoon. Now my mind raced, "She's not going to do it AGAIN?!?" Yes. She was going to do it again. "Third time's the charm?" I croaked, hoping that if this attempt didn't work, I would pass out. I imagined myself sliding from the recliner to the cold, hard floor, unconscious. "She could try as many harpoons as she wanted then," I thought.
She unwrapped the third harpoon, and I was suddenly keenly aware of the other people in the room. They were all staring at us even though I swear the screaming was only in my head. Even the pharmacy guy was standing still, watching. Was three attempts unusual? I wouldn't know. "So, so sorry," the nurse whispered as she sprayed the aerosol again, then confidently came at me with the third harpoon. This time, it felt like she was trying to attach me to the chair with a nail gun. I clenched my fists, and my jaws, and guess what? Still no blood in the syringe.
Me: What am I, a zombie? Why is there no blood?
Nurse: Sometimes they're just stubborn. I'm sure you're not a zombie.
Me: Three tries is too many tries. Got any vodka? (Ha! No, I didn't mention booze...I wasn't nearly coherent enough to ask for anything useful at that point.)
The nurse was able to push fluids through the port (not that I was looking!), and so hung the meds as usual. She then drew blood the conventional way, using a needle in my arm. ("See? Not a zombie," she smiled, holding up the vial of blood.) She walked across the room and into the lab-slash-cocktail bar, while I attempted some deep "cleansing" breaths and tried hard to forget what just transpired.
That experience gave me nightmares, as in: more than one actual nightmare.
Note: If you are facing an infusion for the first time, don't worry! It almost never happens this way.
Part 2 to follow.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Treatment 1: The Aftermath
I didn't keep a journal per se as treatment progressed, but I did send updates via blast-o-gram during each "rest week" from chemo. I wanted to paint a picture of what cancer treatment is like so that I could, in a sense, bring my support group along for the ride. I needed (and still do need) their prayer support and their encouragement. Writing helped me to suffer less and laugh more. The following day-by-day account was sent one week after my first treatment:
Sent: Monday, October 7, 2013 10:24 PM
Subject: Week #01 Post Chemo
Tuesday: Still yuck. Dizzy, nauseated, hands trembling, mind racing...and! Avoiding cold objects (or wishing I had) as though they will stun me. Which they do--repeatedly--because I have ZERO short-term memory. It was ridiculous the number of times I reached for something that I knew was cold. One split-second after grasping said object, it went crashing to wherever gravity sent it. I'd shriek "AAAIIEEEE! Why did I DO that?!", followed by maniacal hand movements (imagine drying your hands without a towel by repeatedly flicking your wrists) to stop the stinging sensation. It was very painful! Mostly, I was in bed staying away from the cold objects. It was not a fun day.
Wednesday: The Worst Night Ever. The day started out OK. My plan was to bring the three boys with me to the clinic, since this would be a short visit to remove the harpoon from my medi-port, thus freeing me from the portable chemo pump. The boys packed themselves into the car, and I backed the minivan out of the garage. But I got confused. At the bottom of the driveway (we live on a hill), I couldn't figure out why my hand automatically reached for the visor. Then I realized, "Oh, the garage door opener is usually clipped here." My goal was then to ask my 11 year old son to, "Please run up the driveway and close the garage with the keypad". Those words would not materialize, however. I could picture an image of the opener as it lay on my kitchen counter (splayed open and waiting for a new battery), but no words were produced. Eventually I said something like, "Use the thing to [waving a finger at the garage] go thing". Thankfully, he knew what I meant. The kid must be psychic.
Driving was going great, I thought, until the pump started beeping! Really? Now? I pullled over to the curb and stopped the car. After unzipping the not-lovely black polyester carrying case, and finding the "Stop" button on the face of the pump, I push the button. Success! ...for about five minutes. The pump kept beeping and beeping, warning for most of the drive that the reservoir was almost empty. I kept pushing "Stop" and it kept not stopping. I even held the button down for a count of twenty, thinking that this was the secret, but no. More beeping. I ignored it.
[Arrive at clinic.] We were the only visitors. Relief. Last time, the waiting room was full of not-feeling-good people. I did get permission beforehand about whether or not I could or should bring the boys on short visits like this one, but it was still comforting to know that their antics would only be bothering the staff (sorry, staff!), and not any patients. The little ones busied themselves with plastic linking toys; the bigger one drew pictures of video game characters. I was ushered to the back.
Still wobbly. The nurse tore the sticker-dressing off of the harpoon in my chest, and then yanked out the harpoon. OK, it wasn't quite that horrific, but that's what it seemed like. I didn't watch. Too squeamish!
The oncologist wanted details, details of the past two days. I gave her details. She offered no explanation for my thumb's early, though temporary "demise" of the night before. More things happened, but--heh. They're gone. Memory. It's got some recovering to do, still.
We made it home O.K., but around dinner time things got ugly. I think that it was due to the bright sunlight bouncing around the surfaces in my house, and probably coaxed along by gnawing hunger (someone explain to me how a person can be both nauseous and hungry, by the way?) that triggered the most grisly, terrifying migraine aura I've ever had. Please, God, don't let this happen after every treatment! I was literally half-blind for the better part of an hour, and could do nothing but curl up in my bed praying that the headache I knew was coming, wouldn't make me vomit. It didn't! Advil took the edge off, and after a while I was able to sleep. Peace.
Thursday: Two words sum it up: intestinal difficulties. Not dwelling on it. Another bad day.
Friday: New strangeness! Inflamed gums on the lower left. But wait. Can't explain this one. Drank more fluids. Stayed in the recliner most of the day.
Saturday: Symptoms: Gums huuuurt, swollen lymph nodes under jaw, and pain shooting into my ear. Chills happened later in the afternoon. Fever reached 99.5. Fluids. Rest. Prayer. Fever broke an hour (?) later.
Chills are not good at all. Chills mean "fever" and I've been warned about a dozen times that "any fever of 100.5 degrees or more means you call me (hematologist) immediately no matter the time or the day, and I will send you to the E.R." Scary. He even wants me to record my temperature daily...I guess in case a fever sneaks up on me? I missed the opportunity to say, "Ha! I'm way ahead of you. I have YEARS of temperature data." (It's a Catholic thing.)
Sunday: Mass! Mass at my own parish. Welcome Home! It was the best. Normal things happened! Also the best. Played spades (card game) with the family all afternoon and when the weather broke, went for a walk with my husband, sister, and youngest kid. Awesome! Got rained on during the walk back, but it was fabulous to be outside, walking again. Normal! Normal things happened. I miss normal. I love normal.
Monday: I bounced out of bed. Energy, huzzah! At the clinic that day I had blood drawn (via needle in the arm; not harpoon in the chest--they can do that--ack!) and various other tests, measurements, etc. etc. Reviewed with the doc all the weird things (and much more) related here and took notes on New Things To Do after the next treatment. It was a long appointment. My eyes are still very sensitive to light, but there were gloriously heavy, gray clouds covering the sun on the drive home from the clinic today. Almost not even wobbly at all. Iron is low.
Treatment Number Two in one week. Doc said to expect the fatigue and neuropathy* to get worse with each treatment, and the nausea to remain about the same (to be controlled w/meds). One treatment down! I know better what to expect for next time. Very, very thankful for a week "off" between treatments. It's difficult to wrap my head around the fact that chemo is the "good guy" when it makes me feel so sick.
LOTS to be thankful for, including people who put up with these crazy-long updates :)
Thank you for praying!
Celine
Sent: Monday, October 7, 2013 10:24 PM
Subject: Week #01 Post Chemo
Tuesday: Still yuck. Dizzy, nauseated, hands trembling, mind racing...and! Avoiding cold objects (or wishing I had) as though they will stun me. Which they do--repeatedly--because I have ZERO short-term memory. It was ridiculous the number of times I reached for something that I knew was cold. One split-second after grasping said object, it went crashing to wherever gravity sent it. I'd shriek "AAAIIEEEE! Why did I DO that?!", followed by maniacal hand movements (imagine drying your hands without a towel by repeatedly flicking your wrists) to stop the stinging sensation. It was very painful! Mostly, I was in bed staying away from the cold objects. It was not a fun day.
Wednesday: The Worst Night Ever. The day started out OK. My plan was to bring the three boys with me to the clinic, since this would be a short visit to remove the harpoon from my medi-port, thus freeing me from the portable chemo pump. The boys packed themselves into the car, and I backed the minivan out of the garage. But I got confused. At the bottom of the driveway (we live on a hill), I couldn't figure out why my hand automatically reached for the visor. Then I realized, "Oh, the garage door opener is usually clipped here." My goal was then to ask my 11 year old son to, "Please run up the driveway and close the garage with the keypad". Those words would not materialize, however. I could picture an image of the opener as it lay on my kitchen counter (splayed open and waiting for a new battery), but no words were produced. Eventually I said something like, "Use the thing to [waving a finger at the garage] go thing". Thankfully, he knew what I meant. The kid must be psychic.
Driving was going great, I thought, until the pump started beeping! Really? Now? I pullled over to the curb and stopped the car. After unzipping the not-lovely black polyester carrying case, and finding the "Stop" button on the face of the pump, I push the button. Success! ...for about five minutes. The pump kept beeping and beeping, warning for most of the drive that the reservoir was almost empty. I kept pushing "Stop" and it kept not stopping. I even held the button down for a count of twenty, thinking that this was the secret, but no. More beeping. I ignored it.
[Arrive at clinic.] We were the only visitors. Relief. Last time, the waiting room was full of not-feeling-good people. I did get permission beforehand about whether or not I could or should bring the boys on short visits like this one, but it was still comforting to know that their antics would only be bothering the staff (sorry, staff!), and not any patients. The little ones busied themselves with plastic linking toys; the bigger one drew pictures of video game characters. I was ushered to the back.
Still wobbly. The nurse tore the sticker-dressing off of the harpoon in my chest, and then yanked out the harpoon. OK, it wasn't quite that horrific, but that's what it seemed like. I didn't watch. Too squeamish!
The oncologist wanted details, details of the past two days. I gave her details. She offered no explanation for my thumb's early, though temporary "demise" of the night before. More things happened, but--heh. They're gone. Memory. It's got some recovering to do, still.
We made it home O.K., but around dinner time things got ugly. I think that it was due to the bright sunlight bouncing around the surfaces in my house, and probably coaxed along by gnawing hunger (someone explain to me how a person can be both nauseous and hungry, by the way?) that triggered the most grisly, terrifying migraine aura I've ever had. Please, God, don't let this happen after every treatment! I was literally half-blind for the better part of an hour, and could do nothing but curl up in my bed praying that the headache I knew was coming, wouldn't make me vomit. It didn't! Advil took the edge off, and after a while I was able to sleep. Peace.
Thursday: Two words sum it up: intestinal difficulties. Not dwelling on it. Another bad day.
Friday: New strangeness! Inflamed gums on the lower left. But wait. Can't explain this one. Drank more fluids. Stayed in the recliner most of the day.
Saturday: Symptoms: Gums huuuurt, swollen lymph nodes under jaw, and pain shooting into my ear. Chills happened later in the afternoon. Fever reached 99.5. Fluids. Rest. Prayer. Fever broke an hour (?) later.
Chills are not good at all. Chills mean "fever" and I've been warned about a dozen times that "any fever of 100.5 degrees or more means you call me (hematologist) immediately no matter the time or the day, and I will send you to the E.R." Scary. He even wants me to record my temperature daily...I guess in case a fever sneaks up on me? I missed the opportunity to say, "Ha! I'm way ahead of you. I have YEARS of temperature data." (It's a Catholic thing.)
Sunday: Mass! Mass at my own parish. Welcome Home! It was the best. Normal things happened! Also the best. Played spades (card game) with the family all afternoon and when the weather broke, went for a walk with my husband, sister, and youngest kid. Awesome! Got rained on during the walk back, but it was fabulous to be outside, walking again. Normal! Normal things happened. I miss normal. I love normal.
Monday: I bounced out of bed. Energy, huzzah! At the clinic that day I had blood drawn (via needle in the arm; not harpoon in the chest--they can do that--ack!) and various other tests, measurements, etc. etc. Reviewed with the doc all the weird things (and much more) related here and took notes on New Things To Do after the next treatment. It was a long appointment. My eyes are still very sensitive to light, but there were gloriously heavy, gray clouds covering the sun on the drive home from the clinic today. Almost not even wobbly at all. Iron is low.
Treatment Number Two in one week. Doc said to expect the fatigue and neuropathy* to get worse with each treatment, and the nausea to remain about the same (to be controlled w/meds). One treatment down! I know better what to expect for next time. Very, very thankful for a week "off" between treatments. It's difficult to wrap my head around the fact that chemo is the "good guy" when it makes me feel so sick.
LOTS to be thankful for, including people who put up with these crazy-long updates :)
Thank you for praying!
Celine
*Neuropathy A condition affecting the nerves supplying the arms and legs. Typically, the feet and hands are involved first. If sensory nerves are involved, numbness, tingling, and pain are prominent, and if motor nerves are involved, the patient experiences weakness.
At this point, neuropathy was only affecting my hands, and only when they were exposed to cold. For the first several treatments, they would return to normal a day or two past treatment-day.
At this point, neuropathy was only affecting my hands, and only when they were exposed to cold. For the first several treatments, they would return to normal a day or two past treatment-day.
Chemo wiped me out each treatment-week both mentally and physically. My schedule--my entire life--was consumed with chemo treatments: getting to them, enduring them, and mitigating their consequences. I slogged ahead to number twelve, which was still miles away.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
September 30, 2013: Chemo is Weird
Local friends brought dinner regularly during "chemo weeks", and those dinners were a kind of life-line for us. From a practical standpoint, having meals provided meant no menu-planning, grocery trips, or food-prep for us, and minimal cleanup--all of which was tremendously helpful. From a spiritual view though, the meals were concrete evidence that we were not alone in our struggle. If you've ever wondered, "Can a meatloaf really do all that?" I'm here to tell you that it can.
My treatment schedule was always: Week A, chemo for 3 days; Week B, recover. This 2-week pattern would repeat for 12 cycles lasting six months total. Side-effects changed and worsened during the course of treatment, but as bad as it sometimes got, there was always at least one strange event that I wanted to share with friends. This time the strange event was dinner.
Sent: Wednesday, October 2, 2013 3:22 PM
Monday's dinner was delivered by a dear friend, J. She is an awesome, awesome cook and unknowingly gave my whole family a huge surprise that we will remember for a long time.
Food wasn't seeming like a great idea, but...I was hungry. So I tried the main dish. OK. I'm eating a little bit! This is going to be fine. The salad looked most wonderfully appealing to me. It had red peppers, strawberries, cucumbers, candied walnuts, and lettuce...and something else. I munched away at the salad, thankful for all the fresh, healthy ingredients. I was only half-aware that one of the "red peppers" in my mouth was softer than I expected. "No matter. It is delicious," is what my brain told me. And then it hit me: I just ate a tomato!
O-M-G! I don't eat tomatoes. I don't even buy tomatoes. My children barely know what a tomato is. My disgust for raw tomatoes is so deep, and so wide that I refer to the tomato as a "tool of the devil" as a matter of course. No reward on earth would entice me to eat a raw tomato. None. Ever.
So when I announced to my five children and loving husband, "Hey. I think I just ate a tomato," there may have been forks dropped onto plates, and jaws hanging open in disbelief. Someone asked, "Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?" My husband whispered, "I don't believe it," and stared blankly in my general direction. I stabbed another piece, in full knowledge this time, with all six family members watching. It was yummy. What in the world? The aliens have invaded my taste-buds. I'm considering haggis next. (Kidding! Do not send haggis.)
. . .
Other weird things are happening... One freakish thing that happened was that my right thumb apparently decided it was DONE being an active member of the hand, and so stopped working. No warning, it just up and "died" during the simplest task. I was merely handing a piece of bread to a kid at the dinner table. Was that too much to ask? The thumb was barely involved! Thankfully, it reconsidered after a minute and began functioning as normal. It does make me wonder what OTHER body parts might decide to do just that very thing in the future. We'll find out, eh?
How any given patient will respond to chemotherapy is unpredictable from one cycle to the next. My thumb "dying" that night was probably the work of Oxaliplatin, which is used for colon and rectal cancers. It is an impish drug; one that would pester me in many ways through the course of treatment and beyond.
* * *
In those early days of revelation, my urologist checked in to advise me on another health matter. I blasted about that, too:
In Other News
My urologist gave me a call. He was all about not forgetting to have lithotripsy on the pesky kidney stone when chemo is over.
Him: We can get it done whenever it's a good time for you.
Me: But really. When you think about it, when IS a good time for lithotripsy?
Him: Oh, I think Monday, Tuesday...
Me: Yeah, yeah. You'll have to catch me first.
...
Now we're settling in for a long six months. Looking forward to a peaceful October of adjustment and getting well. Enjoying "normal" whenever I find it! Thankful as always, for your love and prayers.
Celine
It's now been eighteen months since I broadcast the message above. I'm not too worried about the kidney stone yet.
My treatment schedule was always: Week A, chemo for 3 days; Week B, recover. This 2-week pattern would repeat for 12 cycles lasting six months total. Side-effects changed and worsened during the course of treatment, but as bad as it sometimes got, there was always at least one strange event that I wanted to share with friends. This time the strange event was dinner.
Sent: Wednesday, October 2, 2013 3:22 PM
Monday's dinner was delivered by a dear friend, J. She is an awesome, awesome cook and unknowingly gave my whole family a huge surprise that we will remember for a long time.
Food wasn't seeming like a great idea, but...I was hungry. So I tried the main dish. OK. I'm eating a little bit! This is going to be fine. The salad looked most wonderfully appealing to me. It had red peppers, strawberries, cucumbers, candied walnuts, and lettuce...and something else. I munched away at the salad, thankful for all the fresh, healthy ingredients. I was only half-aware that one of the "red peppers" in my mouth was softer than I expected. "No matter. It is delicious," is what my brain told me. And then it hit me: I just ate a tomato!
O-M-G! I don't eat tomatoes. I don't even buy tomatoes. My children barely know what a tomato is. My disgust for raw tomatoes is so deep, and so wide that I refer to the tomato as a "tool of the devil" as a matter of course. No reward on earth would entice me to eat a raw tomato. None. Ever.
So when I announced to my five children and loving husband, "Hey. I think I just ate a tomato," there may have been forks dropped onto plates, and jaws hanging open in disbelief. Someone asked, "Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?" My husband whispered, "I don't believe it," and stared blankly in my general direction. I stabbed another piece, in full knowledge this time, with all six family members watching. It was yummy. What in the world? The aliens have invaded my taste-buds. I'm considering haggis next. (Kidding! Do not send haggis.)
. . .
Other weird things are happening... One freakish thing that happened was that my right thumb apparently decided it was DONE being an active member of the hand, and so stopped working. No warning, it just up and "died" during the simplest task. I was merely handing a piece of bread to a kid at the dinner table. Was that too much to ask? The thumb was barely involved! Thankfully, it reconsidered after a minute and began functioning as normal. It does make me wonder what OTHER body parts might decide to do just that very thing in the future. We'll find out, eh?
How any given patient will respond to chemotherapy is unpredictable from one cycle to the next. My thumb "dying" that night was probably the work of Oxaliplatin, which is used for colon and rectal cancers. It is an impish drug; one that would pester me in many ways through the course of treatment and beyond.
* * *
In those early days of revelation, my urologist checked in to advise me on another health matter. I blasted about that, too:
In Other News
My urologist gave me a call. He was all about not forgetting to have lithotripsy on the pesky kidney stone when chemo is over.
Him: We can get it done whenever it's a good time for you.
Me: But really. When you think about it, when IS a good time for lithotripsy?
Him: Oh, I think Monday, Tuesday...
Me: Yeah, yeah. You'll have to catch me first.
...
Now we're settling in for a long six months. Looking forward to a peaceful October of adjustment and getting well. Enjoying "normal" whenever I find it! Thankful as always, for your love and prayers.
Celine
It's now been eighteen months since I broadcast the message above. I'm not too worried about the kidney stone yet.
Monday, April 27, 2015
September 30, 2013: First Chemo Treatment
Just before 9:00 a.m. on the last Monday of September, Patrick and I showed up at the oncology clinic for my first chemo infusion. Shortly after checking in, I was escorted to the treatment area in the back. Vital signs were measured, and weight recorded.
Several comfy, leather recliners lined the walls of the large treatment space. I chose a seat on the interior wall to my left because from there I could look out the windows on both the adjoining, and the opposite wall. A nurse that I recognized from my recent five-day hospital stay was there to access my medi-port for the first time.
The port is situated about three inches below my left collar-bone. It looks something like a very large mosquito bite, and feels like a marble under my skin. Attached to the port is a catheter that threads into the superior vena cava. My surgeon explained that having a direct route to the heart saves the smaller veins from being damaged by the harsh chemo drugs. He warned me not to let anyone but a nurse trained in using the port to "go near it" because of its potential to introduce bacteria straight to the heart, which would then efficiently pump them everywhere.
My nurse that morning displayed with gloved hands the harpoon that she intended to punch through my skin and into my port in order to "access" it. It resembles a hefty paperclip, bent at a right angle. She disinfected the area around the port, then sprayed a smelly and not-so-numbing numbing agent over it, and then stabbed that thing right into me (gahhhhh!). It hurt! She arranged the attached catheter into a gentle turn, then covered both it and the needle with a clear, sticky dressing as big as the palm of my hand. I stared out a window during the stabbing and sticker-ing and mentally congratulated myself for not passing out. I'm kind of a wimp when it comes to most procedures, especially ones involving harpoons.
Blood was drawn and analyzed in the on-site lab. (Chemo spells disaster to blood cells, so a complete-blood-count precedes every treatment session to determine whether or not the patient is healthy enough to proceed.) Anti-nausea meds and a steroid were hung on the I.V. pole and slowly dripped into me via the port. The oncologist and the hematologist each filtered in and out several times, checking, asking, reassuring. Then the oncologist brought the MRI report in and announced, "There is nothing to concern us with this report. Nothing with balance, and no cancer there." What a relief! My wobbliness would diminished as I recovered from surgery.
Once the first round of meds emptied, others were hung. Oxaliplatin, the heavy-hitter, and Leucovorin, which is a "helper" to another drug went in over the next four hours. When those finished, the nurse unhooked me from the various bags of meds, and attached me to a portable chemo-pump instead. The pump would administer 5FU (fluorouracil) continuously over the next forty-six hours.
My new companion, the pump, was about the size of a paperback. It was tucked into a black polyester carrying case that I could sling over my shoulder like a really ugly purse. A long, thin hose snaked out of it and connected to the harpoon in my chest. It chattered quietly every couple of minutes. This pump would literally be attached to me via the harpoon in my port for the next two days whether I shopped, showered, or slept. I understood logically that the pump was a triumph of biomedical engineering, but emotionally it felt like a ball and chain.
Before letting us leave, the oncologist double-checked that I was in possession of her business card, and encouraged me to call "any time, with any question". She reviewed the potential side-effects I might experience, giving special attention to oxaliplatin. My impression of the lengthy exchange boiled down to this: Watch out for all things cold! Do not touch them! Do not eat them! Do not even think about drinking them! COLD is not your friend for now. Have a nice day.
I thanked the doctor, scheduled the next four treatments, and then we left. We stopped in to pray at the church across the street before finding a place for lunch. It was well past one o'clock.
Next stop: Wendy's drive-thru, where side-effects first materialized. The grilled chicken sandwich that I ordered (minus tomato) seemed--to my chemo-soaked system--to have the texture of styrofoam. It was as though I could feel each fiber of the chicken breast snapping and squeaking against my teeth as I bit through it. Just remembering it sends a shiver down my spine...chicken-flavored styrofoam...gack.
Next, I cautiously--so very cautiously--grasped the paper cup containing Patrick's ice-cold Diet Pepsi. I ordered none for myself because two minutes earlier at the drive-thru speaker I had imagined myself a Good and Compliant Patient. Being face-to-face with a delicious, frosty drink however, made me think that "Mostly Compliant" might just work. The touch-test revealed no problem and so despite my oncologist's earlier admonition, I took a tiny, little sip of the icy cold soda.
...and then my brain exploded. The End.
Ha! Not exactly. What really happened is that the roof of my mouth was blasted with an instant freeze-ray. In a split-second I felt awake. Every nerve ending seemed suddenly jolted to attention. I was "awake" as in, someone just plunged me into a vat of ice water, awake. I felt shockingly, bracingly AWAKE.
And since that went over so well, I took another sip.
Me: Wow, this is great!
Patrick: You are so weird.
Me: Gimme that drink.
Got home; got nauseous. Blarghhh...nausea...Zofran...tried to sleep with the chemo pump chattering away. My mind was drowsy, but my body was abuzz. Sleep didn't happen. I prayed for perseverance. One down. Eleven more to go. The treatments stretched out ahead of me like hurdles on a never-ending track. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever reach the end of them.
Several comfy, leather recliners lined the walls of the large treatment space. I chose a seat on the interior wall to my left because from there I could look out the windows on both the adjoining, and the opposite wall. A nurse that I recognized from my recent five-day hospital stay was there to access my medi-port for the first time.
The port is situated about three inches below my left collar-bone. It looks something like a very large mosquito bite, and feels like a marble under my skin. Attached to the port is a catheter that threads into the superior vena cava. My surgeon explained that having a direct route to the heart saves the smaller veins from being damaged by the harsh chemo drugs. He warned me not to let anyone but a nurse trained in using the port to "go near it" because of its potential to introduce bacteria straight to the heart, which would then efficiently pump them everywhere.
My nurse that morning displayed with gloved hands the harpoon that she intended to punch through my skin and into my port in order to "access" it. It resembles a hefty paperclip, bent at a right angle. She disinfected the area around the port, then sprayed a smelly and not-so-numbing numbing agent over it, and then stabbed that thing right into me (gahhhhh!). It hurt! She arranged the attached catheter into a gentle turn, then covered both it and the needle with a clear, sticky dressing as big as the palm of my hand. I stared out a window during the stabbing and sticker-ing and mentally congratulated myself for not passing out. I'm kind of a wimp when it comes to most procedures, especially ones involving harpoons.
Blood was drawn and analyzed in the on-site lab. (Chemo spells disaster to blood cells, so a complete-blood-count precedes every treatment session to determine whether or not the patient is healthy enough to proceed.) Anti-nausea meds and a steroid were hung on the I.V. pole and slowly dripped into me via the port. The oncologist and the hematologist each filtered in and out several times, checking, asking, reassuring. Then the oncologist brought the MRI report in and announced, "There is nothing to concern us with this report. Nothing with balance, and no cancer there." What a relief! My wobbliness would diminished as I recovered from surgery.
Once the first round of meds emptied, others were hung. Oxaliplatin, the heavy-hitter, and Leucovorin, which is a "helper" to another drug went in over the next four hours. When those finished, the nurse unhooked me from the various bags of meds, and attached me to a portable chemo-pump instead. The pump would administer 5FU (fluorouracil) continuously over the next forty-six hours.
My new companion, the pump, was about the size of a paperback. It was tucked into a black polyester carrying case that I could sling over my shoulder like a really ugly purse. A long, thin hose snaked out of it and connected to the harpoon in my chest. It chattered quietly every couple of minutes. This pump would literally be attached to me via the harpoon in my port for the next two days whether I shopped, showered, or slept. I understood logically that the pump was a triumph of biomedical engineering, but emotionally it felt like a ball and chain.
Before letting us leave, the oncologist double-checked that I was in possession of her business card, and encouraged me to call "any time, with any question". She reviewed the potential side-effects I might experience, giving special attention to oxaliplatin. My impression of the lengthy exchange boiled down to this: Watch out for all things cold! Do not touch them! Do not eat them! Do not even think about drinking them! COLD is not your friend for now. Have a nice day.
I thanked the doctor, scheduled the next four treatments, and then we left. We stopped in to pray at the church across the street before finding a place for lunch. It was well past one o'clock.
Next stop: Wendy's drive-thru, where side-effects first materialized. The grilled chicken sandwich that I ordered (minus tomato) seemed--to my chemo-soaked system--to have the texture of styrofoam. It was as though I could feel each fiber of the chicken breast snapping and squeaking against my teeth as I bit through it. Just remembering it sends a shiver down my spine...chicken-flavored styrofoam...gack.
Next, I cautiously--so very cautiously--grasped the paper cup containing Patrick's ice-cold Diet Pepsi. I ordered none for myself because two minutes earlier at the drive-thru speaker I had imagined myself a Good and Compliant Patient. Being face-to-face with a delicious, frosty drink however, made me think that "Mostly Compliant" might just work. The touch-test revealed no problem and so despite my oncologist's earlier admonition, I took a tiny, little sip of the icy cold soda.
...and then my brain exploded. The End.
Ha! Not exactly. What really happened is that the roof of my mouth was blasted with an instant freeze-ray. In a split-second I felt awake. Every nerve ending seemed suddenly jolted to attention. I was "awake" as in, someone just plunged me into a vat of ice water, awake. I felt shockingly, bracingly AWAKE.
And since that went over so well, I took another sip.
Me: Wow, this is great!
Patrick: You are so weird.
Me: Gimme that drink.
Got home; got nauseous. Blarghhh...nausea...Zofran...tried to sleep with the chemo pump chattering away. My mind was drowsy, but my body was abuzz. Sleep didn't happen. I prayed for perseverance. One down. Eleven more to go. The treatments stretched out ahead of me like hurdles on a never-ending track. It seemed almost impossible that I'd ever reach the end of them.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
September 28, 2013--Story of an MRI
Patrick drove me to the hospital on Saturday afternoon for my first MRI. The twelve-year-old-looking boy behind the counter gave me a clipboard with many, many pages of information to review, initial, sign, date and return. It was disconcerting to have to check the box next to "cancer" on the medical history form.
Another young person, a girl this time, W., ushered me to the back and asked a bunch of questions. Every surface was brightly lit, clean, and appeared shiny-new and sterile. Quietly chirping cricket noises and tweeting sounds permeated the space. These were coming from the MRI machine, but I didn't know that at the time. I thought I was experiencing manufactured ambiance, piped-in nature sounds to calm nervous patients.
The technician was a woman, T., and she asked what sort of music I'd like to listen to while I was having the test. I chose "classical", and she asked, "Would piano be OK?" Perfect. Headphones on, I was instructed to lie down on the platform, which seemed to me to be about the width of a deck of cards. W. positioned me so that my shoulders hit the stops, and my head remained stationary. She then snapped a white, plastic, stout-looking cage apparatus over my face. I was good to go.
T. and W. stepped into the control room. The table inched forward into the machine, the music in my headphones began, and I stayed still. (I do "still" pretty well these days.) Though I'm confident that the Angels were poised and ready, I begged no panicked pleas for help this time.
Then the noise! Lots of noise. First it was beeping. Loud, loud beeping. It was coming from the left. I expected it to rotate around and over me and end up on the right, but no. All the noises seemed to come from the left and remain there. That's how it seemed, anyway. The table rumbled. It shook! Then the sounds changed to intermittent buzzing. The table halted. Then another kind of noise, like an angry fire alarm blared. I lost track of all of the different sounds. More table shaking! Close to the end of the procedure, contrast was injected through a needle in my arm (no I.V., yay!) and then the test continued on in its jarring, boisterous way. The whole thing took about 40 minutes.
W.: How was it?
Me: Just like Disney, but with less screaming.
I was handed a CD with all sorts of way-cool pictures of my brain that I of course have no idea how to interpret. I had fun looking at them. My sister has some experience reading MRIs, and she pointed out various structures and made lots of encouraging "oohs" and "ahs" as we scrolled through the images together later at my house.
I am an engineer by training, but spent my professional life writing computer applications. Even so, I have always entertained a strong pull toward graphic arts and so I was pleased to discover that the right hemisphere (creative/spatial) of my brain appeared a little bigger than the left.
What kind of engineer does that make me? (an unemployed one! haha)
I wonder why I have so much trouble reading maps.
Another young person, a girl this time, W., ushered me to the back and asked a bunch of questions. Every surface was brightly lit, clean, and appeared shiny-new and sterile. Quietly chirping cricket noises and tweeting sounds permeated the space. These were coming from the MRI machine, but I didn't know that at the time. I thought I was experiencing manufactured ambiance, piped-in nature sounds to calm nervous patients.
The technician was a woman, T., and she asked what sort of music I'd like to listen to while I was having the test. I chose "classical", and she asked, "Would piano be OK?" Perfect. Headphones on, I was instructed to lie down on the platform, which seemed to me to be about the width of a deck of cards. W. positioned me so that my shoulders hit the stops, and my head remained stationary. She then snapped a white, plastic, stout-looking cage apparatus over my face. I was good to go.
T. and W. stepped into the control room. The table inched forward into the machine, the music in my headphones began, and I stayed still. (I do "still" pretty well these days.) Though I'm confident that the Angels were poised and ready, I begged no panicked pleas for help this time.
Then the noise! Lots of noise. First it was beeping. Loud, loud beeping. It was coming from the left. I expected it to rotate around and over me and end up on the right, but no. All the noises seemed to come from the left and remain there. That's how it seemed, anyway. The table rumbled. It shook! Then the sounds changed to intermittent buzzing. The table halted. Then another kind of noise, like an angry fire alarm blared. I lost track of all of the different sounds. More table shaking! Close to the end of the procedure, contrast was injected through a needle in my arm (no I.V., yay!) and then the test continued on in its jarring, boisterous way. The whole thing took about 40 minutes.
W.: How was it?
Me: Just like Disney, but with less screaming.
I was handed a CD with all sorts of way-cool pictures of my brain that I of course have no idea how to interpret. I had fun looking at them. My sister has some experience reading MRIs, and she pointed out various structures and made lots of encouraging "oohs" and "ahs" as we scrolled through the images together later at my house.
I am an engineer by training, but spent my professional life writing computer applications. Even so, I have always entertained a strong pull toward graphic arts and so I was pleased to discover that the right hemisphere (creative/spatial) of my brain appeared a little bigger than the left.
What kind of engineer does that make me? (an unemployed one! haha)
I wonder why I have so much trouble reading maps.
Friday, April 24, 2015
September 26, 2013: Part 2
Read part 1 here.
The hematologist returned to the exam room with the promised paperwork. He wanted me to have an MRI of the brain. Colon cancer can spread anywhere, even the brain. It was a terrifying prospect. Everything was being done in a rushed manner. Start-of-Chemo was next Monday, and it was already Thursday. He wanted the test performed before chemo began.
In retrospect, I think the urgency was because mets to the brain would've confirmed a stage IV diagnosis. My upcoming chemotherapy was based on a stage IIIc determination, the treatment of which involves different drugs than would be used for a stage IV patient. This question needed to be sorted, and quickly.
I was ushered onto one of those four-wheeled, spinny stools that doctors use, which was placed in the hallway at a pass-through window near where one of the office clerks sat. She phoned my insurance company, and then the hospital, and then handed the receiver to me. My input was required in order to schedule the appointment.
A woman's voice over the phone asked me many, many questions in a nonchalant way, the most gruesome of which was, "Have you ever held a job where flying metal shards could have entered your eye?"
In a split second, my brain held this conversation with itself: "Flying metal shards? ENTERED? What?!?... 'Entered' seems like such a gentle word. They wouldn't just 'enter', would they? They'd sort of get SHOT like tiny, destructive bullets RIPPING INTO the eye, wouldn't they? WOULDN'T THEY?!"
My response to the lady's question came slowly. It was a drawn-out, "Nooo," in a mostly-confident, if slightly horrified tone.
Thanks to this happy exchange, I then imagined streams of metal shards flying out of each eyeball, racing toward the gigantic magnets inside the MRI machine. What would THAT be like?! ack! ack! ack! I worried that I would fall off the little spinny stool in a dead faint. No longer engaged in the conversation; I absorbed none of what was being said. After "Thank you," and "good-bye," I noticed that I had scribbled these mysterious words: "flags", "3:45", and "zipper".
I handed the receiver back to the clerk. I was troubled that I was unable to recollect the conversation. It was as though my brain had erased itself. Luckily, paperwork was handed to me that included all of the details of my appointment, which I discovered was scheduled to occur in two days.
I decided that what I needed most was a nap. It had been a long month already, and there were four whole days of it left.
The hematologist returned to the exam room with the promised paperwork. He wanted me to have an MRI of the brain. Colon cancer can spread anywhere, even the brain. It was a terrifying prospect. Everything was being done in a rushed manner. Start-of-Chemo was next Monday, and it was already Thursday. He wanted the test performed before chemo began.
In retrospect, I think the urgency was because mets to the brain would've confirmed a stage IV diagnosis. My upcoming chemotherapy was based on a stage IIIc determination, the treatment of which involves different drugs than would be used for a stage IV patient. This question needed to be sorted, and quickly.
I was ushered onto one of those four-wheeled, spinny stools that doctors use, which was placed in the hallway at a pass-through window near where one of the office clerks sat. She phoned my insurance company, and then the hospital, and then handed the receiver to me. My input was required in order to schedule the appointment.
A woman's voice over the phone asked me many, many questions in a nonchalant way, the most gruesome of which was, "Have you ever held a job where flying metal shards could have entered your eye?"
In a split second, my brain held this conversation with itself: "Flying metal shards? ENTERED? What?!?... 'Entered' seems like such a gentle word. They wouldn't just 'enter', would they? They'd sort of get SHOT like tiny, destructive bullets RIPPING INTO the eye, wouldn't they? WOULDN'T THEY?!"
My response to the lady's question came slowly. It was a drawn-out, "Nooo," in a mostly-confident, if slightly horrified tone.
Thanks to this happy exchange, I then imagined streams of metal shards flying out of each eyeball, racing toward the gigantic magnets inside the MRI machine. What would THAT be like?! ack! ack! ack! I worried that I would fall off the little spinny stool in a dead faint. No longer engaged in the conversation; I absorbed none of what was being said. After "Thank you," and "good-bye," I noticed that I had scribbled these mysterious words: "flags", "3:45", and "zipper".
I handed the receiver back to the clerk. I was troubled that I was unable to recollect the conversation. It was as though my brain had erased itself. Luckily, paperwork was handed to me that included all of the details of my appointment, which I discovered was scheduled to occur in two days.
I decided that what I needed most was a nap. It had been a long month already, and there were four whole days of it left.
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